


Psyche

by was_adamant



Series: Second Verse [2]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mindfuck, Psychological Horror, Rape/Non-con Elements, Science Fiction, baby boy is a fucked up mess, god dang i love sci-fi, might arguably be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/was_adamant/pseuds/was_adamant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p class="p1">
  <em>You wake up. </em>
</p><p>Eyes open, you can hear soft noises from the street below.<br/>
The clock to your right reads 1am. You need to take a piss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psyche

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags

Dean caught you once, before you got good at that kinda stuff. You learn your lesson once, for that kinda thing.

When you needed money to pay rent, you learnt it even better, how to cover the marks up. Talk shite, run your mouth a different line while behind your back you stuffed used condoms and cash in your pocket. Handed the money over to him with a smirk, letting him think you stole it all (and you did, for some of it), your Mum a worried blur a bit off to the side. Holding your baby sister who _needed_ you. Still needs, but you made sure they're doing better now. Dean has a satisfyingly missing front tooth and two counts of robbery and grand-theft making sure he stays away for a while, at least. 

 

Nowadays you don't need to pay rent, don't even need to worry about paying for anything ever because it's all on the company account. Wealthy investors and investments keeping whatever possible bills in your life at bay. You get your hands dirty, you clean up messes, you're doing the right thing most of the time and it's a good trade off, for the most part.

Sure, you're even more fucked up now than you ever were before, when you were sucking cock and getting fucked like a toy in seedy expensive gentleman's clubs. Now it's being obsessed with a dead bloke you wanted to fuck and follow around like a _dog -_ while dressed up like him. Trying to do him justice (You're still in an expensive gentleman's club but eh, it's better).

Now, it's seeing him everywhere like how you wanted to, only your head's getting screwed up, seeing _doubles._  

You're in the bathroom when it happens. Long day, nothing much just the tedious lines of reports, files piling up on your desk because a good agent you are; a good clerk you aren't. You're dipping your hands in the cold water of the sink when the lights go out and you _feel_ something behind, instinct pounding in your chest as you try to turn, grabbing at the ceramic soap dish (blunt force always works a treat) but who - whatever it is doesn't let you, doesn't even have the manners to let you _think_ you have a chance, before it's on you, iron-grip on wrists, your head forced up against the mirror, fogging up as you try to gasp against the immovable thing thats got you cornered.

 

That morning, you'd gone into a meeting with Merlin and Lancelot (you don't mind as much if they know how fucked in the head you are) and you'd talked to them about what you saw, in that hall. Voice hesitant as you said that maybe you'd _seen him before, maybe, out the corner of your eye on that Australia job, maybe the one in South Korea too, I'm not - I can't be sure._

"Be careful, you moron," Roxy had said, line between her eyes, sliding a new Glock over to you. Merlin said nothing, looked down at his clipboard instead, scrolling past report after report and trying to find you some information. You'd smiled at her, at them both, a real genuine one you saved usually for when you visited the little tyke; she's growing so fast, your Mum keeps complaining about having to buy her new clothes (but not about affording them, thank god). 

You told them you're handling it fine, that he- it didn't seem dangerous yet. Nothing to worry about. 

 

Of course, here in the bathroom of your ridiculously central London apartment you realize that maybe you'd been overstating a bit. You are contemplating a theoretical last will and testament where you hand over all your stuff to Roxy and all your work to Merlin and nothing but your funds to your Mum while you try find a moment of leverage against your assailant when... when he talks.

Smooth, mild-mannered like you remember. Posh and a little infuriating. He- it's never talked before.

You are so needy for it.

 

Back when you had to find the money quick, to keep staying and looking out for your _family_ , you did what you normally did and dressed up dirty clean; pants tight, shirt loose. Only instead you slunk down to the places in the city you knew that had the kind of clubs with shiny VIP cards you couldn't afford and black idling Mercedes, windows tinted. You'd let yourself loose, playing up the drink in you, smile, laugh with men twice, three times your age. Old enough to be your _Dad_ you remember thinking, sinking down into dark leather upholstery, cum already slicking the surface. You learnt how to take a hit. You learnt how to like it, grinning like a little shit through a bit of blood on your teeth, _that all you got Daddy.  
_ It paid well. 

It's paying now, too. The craved hand holding your wrists grinding the bones together while the other yanks hard at your trousers, your belt already a ripped up scrap, bruises beginning on your hips. You don't know what, _how_ the hell this is all happening and you're pretty fucking sure, last you checked, this man pressed against you in the dark was buried in a nice uptown gravesite with marble blocks and tasteful bouquets. (You'd left a medal there, the day after. You didn't go to the funeral). 

 

But you know that aftershave. It's fucking sitting on a shelf to your right. You are _sure_ you know this body also, close like it never was before though you had studied it all that time ago; sauntering around, umbrella in hand. 

You would look and look and _look_.  

So you know this body. Pressed up so close it hurts, sink ledge digging into your front, hand going down around your groin, digging into the back of your thighs, leaving bruises, making you sweat and shake with confusion, helpless. 

 

 _You love it._ Oh god, do you love it.

 

He is whispering things, dark things, voice a fog in your ear. You can't make out individual words, phrases all mixed up in white static again. You just know its his voice, telling you things. You're absolutely fucking clueless as to why, having mysteriously risen like Jesus from the dead he's decided to tail you around and _rip your clothes off_ but you're gonna just take it. Take it like the desperate _hussy_ you apparently are, _bloody hell._  

You feel fingers tugging at your underwear coated with something slippery and cold, oily and messy already, leaving wet marks wherever it touches and it's not until two of them are near breaching you, teasing, rubbing at your _fucking greedy arse fucking hole_ that you smell the scent of orange and _jesus wept, thats your fucking lube._

This fucker is slicking you up in the bathroom of your state-of-the-art secured apartment with your own lube that he's, somehow, found hidden in a compartment of your wardrobe and you're suddenly so _bloody_ _angry_ you _bite_ the arm thats near your face, still holding your wrists down, and buckle backwards into him. The action is enough to shock the double a bit, loosen his hand on your wrists and you work one free, breath coming hot and damp against the mirror, to try reach behind and grab his head but then he _drives the fingers in._

No warning, sly fucking arse doesn't even fight the hand crushed in his hair, just leans down to bite your neck and work the fingers in further and you _buckle_ , you're a controlled demolition, bricks and knees giving way to him. 

He licks your neck, murmuring platitudes and trying to calm you down like you're still his wayward charge and you're huffing like a _slut_ , you want him so bad. The darkness of the room stops you from seeing his reflection, his face as he works you open. Pressed up against the cold ceramic and glass, skin hot, you moan and you whimper and you say _fuck, why, stay._ You're so hard, already leaking exposed against the sink, underwear now long pulled off, somehow (probably ripped, whatever) and you keep moaning, keep whining, voice in a state of fucked up bliss when he finally, finally slides his fingers out of you, and you hear the hiss of fabric and buttons being undone. When he works himself in you are dead, you are _dying_ , two fingers weren't enough, were perfect. His cock burns so good, stretching you out, unforgiving and awful. You are trying to relax, you are trying to give into it with a sob, it is not until this moment that you are _sure he is not human._

 

You know cocks, okay? You know how hard they feel, and you know dildos, made with silicone; vibrators, metal wrapped in rubber.

You know the differences. So even as he's sliding in, fingers no longer gripping your wrist but slipping into your mouth, voice so familiar, you know that this is wrong. He is so, so _wrong_. 

It still doesn't _change_ anything though; he's still too real, mirror image against the Harry that was alive. This one may be stronger and made from _robots maybe, shit,_ but it doesn't change the fact that every time you've spotted him, over the past week, past _month,_ you've known. You've known all along it was _him_ , you just didn't know how to believe it. 

 

So he's in you now, yeah. 

Cock wrong side of heavy, solid underneath but it still feels so good here, whimpering and being a fucking drooling wreck around his fingers, god you're so gone. He isn't even going fast, slow inexorable push pull driving you steadily weaker and you are coming without being _fucking touched, you fucking tart_ , its creeped up on you and your cock is pulsing, missing the inside of the sink and basically making a mess like you currently are, surrounded by the clean smell of him. He's still going though, like a - a machine, steady, pumping into you relentlessly even as it starts becoming too much, too sensitive and you choke a bit, fingers tangled with your tongue. You try and talk around it but he's shushing you, other hand fondling your fucking over-sensitized tits, you are gonna cry, Christ fucking _fuck_. Its so good.

Later, when you've starting losing track of events and reality and you're coming for the sixth, maybe seventh time bent low over the ruined sink; you lose consciousness between one moment and the next. You pass out to the sound of his moans, surprisingly guttural, possessive and searing. You know he's come before, somehow, in between bouts of you sobbing his name onto the sink bench, hands slipping on tiles. You aren't sure of the logistics of things and why he seems to be able to just… keep going but a _hysterical_ part of you is saying stuff like porn bots and rich clientele as you slide into blackness.

 

_You wake up._

Eyes open, you can hear soft noises from the street below.

The clock to your right reads 4am.

The bathroom door to your left is dark, door ajar. 

You find yourself lying in your bed, and this situation is making a play for being _really fucking familiar_ and you jerk upwards till you're sitting.

There is a trickle of something blood-wet, something thick and silky that creeps out, between your thighs and you _shake_ , you fucking smell the iron tang and musk and filth and- you've been playing it all off as a dream just now, everything else could've been just a fucked up, pain pill induced _hallucination_. But this.

 

You can't explain this.

 

You feel the sting of tears on your face and you angrily wipe them away, string of curses under your breath. You take a moment to determine if your body has any other _foreign matter_ , feeling now the soreness in your fucking arse, the pricking on your wrists.

When you look around, when you make to move again, you notice there's a new suit lying by the foot of the bed; a classy dark woolen mix, a pair of oxfords on top polished oily black and... and you take a second, a minute, to just fucking _breathe in - out -_ hands crumpling sheets. Something weak and whimpering claws at your throat as you consider just, ignoring it all. Pretending it all away. Knowing you can't. No.

You won't. You would never.

You put the suit on. It fits perfectly.

 

Hours later, when your hands are steadier and your smile doesn't feel like thrilled, caught prey you lean in to Merlin's office for a chat, _just a quick word, about our weird little problem_. He still doesn't know much more, been analyzing all the visual data, it's not somehow tampered; by all accounts the bloke's some kinda doppelgänger. No one else has apparently seen him, not even hints of. Roxy has passed on the message that she's going back in to Lancelot all over the place and chase up a lead to do with her assignment. Nothing concrete yet.

"She'll contact you via your private mobile" Merlin says, handing you his analysis of the video feed, "She seemed to be concerned about something."

Smile, say thanks, leave the office, you've taken a few days off to the relief of most parties involved. You don't explain why and they don't ask, they think they know why.

 

You've got questions, sure. Like what the fuck is going on and also, what the _bleeding fuck is going on_ \- but. You don't really care. You don't.

You got over the slight failure of the whole 2015 Murder Orgy fiasco and talked to the occasional appointed therapist because you had to, though honestly, this fucked up mess is fine, you can deal. It isn't a problem.

You're just so grateful, you could cry again. So fucking _grateful_ because he's _here._ Doesn't matter _how_ or _why,_ fuck, you just don't care because he's here, he's here, Harry fucking Hart is _here_ - 

If you feel a bit unnerved, if this behavior is a bit - makes you feel like there's fingers running down the back of your throat, a cloying, clogging feeling in your eyes, in your head… It's okay. It's fucking fine.

He's yours, again. 

All yours apparently, this time. 

 

You go back to your flat.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Right, well. Ok. So I'm be done for a bit @x@  
> Got stuff on so I'll be trying to do a weekly update, we'll see how it goes ovo


End file.
